


on the reconstruction of fragile things (people & hearts & dreams)

by intertwingular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: & the art of coping after a seven year war, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Healer Harry Potter, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, Post-Canon Fix-It, bullshitting medical terminology, draco kind of...wrote himself into this tbh, hermione's the wizard equivalent of a lawyer so, i'm writing this as i go; ergo i don't quite know what's going to happen, mentions of wizard college bc i don't believe that wizards dont have goddamn colleges, relationship tags & character tags to be added as they come up, shrugs, this is more than one chapter but ao3 is dumb, u can argue that it was only a year long war but im gonna argue otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intertwingular/pseuds/intertwingular
Summary: harry & hermione & ron learn to heal. harry learns in more ways that just the one.





	on the reconstruction of fragile things (people & hearts & dreams)

**Author's Note:**

> _"not_ another _story, ren,"_ you say. _"what about all those others you promised/are writing/should probably elaborate on & release those 10k words you wrote for them?"_
> 
> listen, i do what i want. 
> 
> joking aside, this is my attempt to write a post-canon fix-it - patching up the cursed child debacle before it even occurs. (of course, _of course_ there were parts of it that i loved so very much - like the way scorpius and albus seemed to succeed in the places where their fathers could not. they were the best of friends. 10/10. the only good part about that disaster, aside from hermione as the minister of magic.) i went on and on about healer harry at one point (probably 12 am but _hah_ that's not new.) and this fic kind of...ballooned from it. 
> 
> can't guarantee very consistent updates? (sorry, sorry!) seeing as school is _more_ than kicking my ass. and inspiration is a fickle thing as always. but this is an itch i'm glad i scratched. 
> 
> anyways, long & rambling author's notes aside; i hope you guys enjoy! ( && if you're here from _and this is the wonder_ i do have a series of shorts to add to that. maybe i'll buck up and post them soon.)

When Harry turns eighteen, Ron and Hermione drag him out to a Muggle pub in the heart of London – a rundown little thing, bereft of blinding lights and music with baselines that shake the foundation of the building. It’s quiet and quaint, tucked away behind a bakery and a tailor’s shop, only one of which is closed for the night. The fruit beer that Hermione is so fond of is on tap, and Ron steadily works his way through glass after glass of Irish whisky.

“It’s in my blood,” Ron declares after what Harry thinks is his twelfth glass. “The blood o’ the Irish.” He tries to imitate a brogue and fails miserably.

“You’re drunk, Ron,” Hermione says, unbearably fond. “Stick to water after this.”

>  
Harry nurses a rum and coke and unabashedly ignores Ron’s attempts at getting him to down a few more shots of whisky. He’s already tipsy from the ones before – Harry has neither Ron’s alcohol tolerance, nor Hermione’s penchant for pacing herself. He dimly remembers Sirius telling him how James had been a lightweight too, but the memory is clouded over with Firewhisky, and Harry’s current state of inebriation.

They’re all tired. Normally, it would take Ron a solid bottle and a half of pure whisky to even approach half of the drunken state he’s in currently, but Auror training has worn them both thin. Maybe they’re a little more shaken from the War than they’d like to admit – but even Hermione creeps into the bedroom they’ve all begun to share.

(they’ve never been ones to lie to themselves. if they were though, harry would imagine that the excuse would be something along the lines of 12 grimmauld place’s heating not quite working just yet.)

But Harry is drunk, and most of all – he’s not certain anymore. Once upon a time – that being fifth year – Harry had been certain that he’d wanted to be an Auror, after school was over. But that was a time before the War, and a time before Voldemort was _really_ a threat.

(even after cedric’s death, harry didn’t think that he’d realized just how large the threat voldemort posed was. some days, that threat seems a little too big, and harry doesn’t want to climb out of bed at all.)

Harry finds that he doesn’t _like_ Auror training anymore. There’s no thrill in this chase – this near pointless fighting, because Harry’s fought in a _war._ He’s seen the last of his mother and father’s friends fall, seen Remus and Tonks and Sirius and Snape and _God_ – so many others fall under a sickly green light, faster and harder than Harry can run to catch up.

(some child part of him still cries that litany of “wait up, wait for me, _please, please, please._ ” those are the nights harry likes the least.)

Auror training is like reliving the War. Being an Auror will be living the War every day, over and over again, snippets of green light and unspeakable evils brought to life from behind his eyes to before them and Harry isn’t certain that he can stand it.

But he’s the Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Lived Twice – or whatever stupid moniker the papers are calling him now. Harry’s never been stupid – he’s grown up with Aunt Petunia’s constant chatter over social standings and scandals and other insipid nonsense, lived through the second coming of the Chamber of Secrets, and really, the point is that he knows the power of a symbol.

Harry is aware that as of now, he is _the_ symbol. That powerful piece of the chessboard of politics – and while he’s not obligated to help, not obligated to protect, Harry knows that’s what the public needs to see. The easiest way to do that is to become an Auror, to fight and claw his way through every passing day, to relive the War and see the green light and the blood and the _bodies_ – and Harry can’t do that anymore.

“’M quitting,” he slurs, resting his cheek against the condensation of his tumbler.

Ron blinks blearily at him from over his whisky glass. “Quittin’ what, mate?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow, and takes a long pull from her mug. She doesn’t ask, but the question is there.

“Auror training,” Harry answers. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Across their tall, round table, Hermione brushes away non-existent wrinkles from her jeans. “What are you going to do then?” She asks. “Teach?”

Harry snorts through the bubbly, fond feeling. They all know that the Potter fortune is enough to set Harry on a life without need for work, _and_ still let him leave any children he has a trust fund, but they also all know that Harry would go absolutely mad without work.

(“if there’s one good thing going for you,” hermione tells him during their fifth year. their homework is done, scattered across the table they’ve commandeered in the library. ron is half asleep in a book of chess strategies harry had gotten him for his birthday, and he snorts sleepily at the sound of hermione’s voice. harry looks away from his slowly growing notes on defense spells and tactics. a lot of them have asterisks, so that he remembers to go over them with neville a few times. “it’s your work ethic, harry.”

harry shrugs, and goes back to his notes. he hopes seamus doesn’t scorch off his eyebrows again. unsurprisingly, hogwarts doesn’t have fire extinguishers. surprise, surprise.)

“Become a Healer,” Harry announces, and clinks his glass to Ron’s in a limp toast.

Hermione watches – half in amusement and half in genuine pride as they send off a letter to Kingsley at midnight. They’re all sober – Hermione would never let either him or Ron make a decision like this while drunk, after all – and Harry watches as Arion flutters away on snowy white wings. He’s not Hedwig, but sometimes it feels like the spirit of his old friend lingers with her successor, guiding him onwards.

“I’m proud of you,” Hermione says, bumping her shoulder into his. The night is balmy as July nights tend to be, and Ron comes out onto the balcony with three glasses of water. “This will be good for you, Harry.”

Ron sets the glasses down with a gentle clink. “She’s right, mate,” he declares, shoulders set and tone matter-of-fact. “’Sides, it’s not like you’re not helping people this way too, right?”

Harry watches the spot where Arion disappeared into the velvet dark night, and laughs. It’s hoarse and quiet in the nighttime, nearly drowned out against the sound of cars rushing by on the highway and London roads. “Thanks,” he says. Ron knocks a glass into his knuckles until he takes it, and quietly they relish in the knowledge that for now, this is enough.

* * *

Of course, it’s then that the blaring sound of Harry’s alarm wakes him up for the seven am shift. He’s not eighteen, not hungover – instead, twenty-two, and in dire need of a cup of coffee.

Harry throws a slipper at the alarm clock. Unsurprisingly, all the damn thing does is topple off from his nightstand, red analog numbers still blinking in and out on the interface. (hermione is a certifiable genius – the fact that she’d gotten electricity to work with all of grimmauld place’s centuries of residue magic is more than proof enough.) It still shrieks at him to wake up, beeping furiously.

Harry bends down and flicks it off. Downstairs, he can hear the gurgle of the coffee machine, and Kreacher’s morning bickering with Hermione. Ron has a night shift at the Ministry, training the newer Auror recruits, and Hermione leaves for her job with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Skirting around Kreacher and Hermione, Harry fiddles with the knobs and settings of the coffee maker – forgoing sugar and milk completely.

“That _can’t_ be good for you,” Hermione comments, settling down at the table. “Seriously, Harry, it’s like motor oil.”

Harry stares down at the oil-slick color of his coffee, and swallows his current mouthful. “I’m a doctor, Hermione,” he mutters, squinting down at the blurry letters of the _Prophet._ “I think it’s fine.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him, and pointedly takes a drag from her tea. “Being a doctor doesn’t give you an excuse to kill your insides, Harry,” she says primly. “Tea has just as much caffeine as coffee, but with less of an addiction.”

Harry presses his face to the _Prophet,_ and finds that the newfound proximity doesn’t make the text any clearer. “Leave me and my coffee addiction alone,” he grumbles. “I’ve got to get ready for the seven am shift.”

Hermione nods, and slides the _Prophet_ out from beneath Harry’s forehead. “Go get changed, then.”

Harry sets down his coffee mug, and points at it. “Don’t touch it.”

Hermione doesn’t look up from the _Prophet_ as she nods. It doesn’t really increase Harry’s faith that she won’t. “Seriously, Hermione,” he says. “I will die mid-shift if you tamper with my coffee.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Harry,” she chides. “I’m sure Saint Mungo’s cafeteria has a coffee machine.”

Harry turns up the stairs, and very pointedly doesn’t tell Hermione that Saint Mungo’s coffee is worth as much as an actual oil slick. It might have the health benefits of that, gritty, cold and sludge-like as it is.

“I’ll wait ten minutes and nothing more,” Hermione calls from the kitchen. “Seriously, I’ll leave without you!”

He’s down and drinking his not-as-scalding coffee in less than five. The fact that his hair looks like a bit of a nest doesn’t matter much – even as Hermione scowls at the messy, falling-apart half-bun tucked against the nape of his neck.

“You can’t complain at my hair when your hair looks like that,” Harry says, gesturing towards the untamed cloud behind her. “I’ll brush my hair if you brush yours.”

“This isn’t a democracy,” Hermione says crossly.

Harry brushes cat hair from his trousers, and rolls up his sleeves. “The fact that you work in a democratic government body argues otherwise,” he comments.

“Oh, shut it, you,” she grumbles, shoving her feet into her pumps. “I’m not a Healer, Harry.”

“Of course not,” he says. “You’re a lawyer – that’s even worse.”

She knocks him over on the way towards the Floo, heels clicking against the hardwood floors. Harry jumps out of the employee Floo, still cackling, never mind the emerald green Floo powder still clinging to the folds of his turtleneck.

He has to reassure Mediwitch Hartley twelve times in the next hour that no, as a matter of fact, he has not caught the bout of the Giggling Fever going around. Especially not from Healer Galeman, the overinflated prick.

* * *

Draco hates teaching the Auror trainees. Really, the only thing that makes it worse is the fact that _Weasley is his partner. (it’s the condition of his parole; draco goes into the auror division – and one of the war’s oh-so-lauded heroes has to be partnered with him constantly.)_

But, at least it isn’t Potter. The department had been up in arms when Potter had announced his leaving – for Healer training, to boot. Weasley, to his sparse credit, hadn’t reacted, simply slapping the Boy-Who-Lived firmly on the back, and declaring that the change would be “good for you mate, right on.”

Draco, in the back of the briefing room, had simply shrugged when asked how he felt about it. The War had changed a great many things – both during it, and during the aftermath. Draco is…was…childish. Spoilt and unaware in the worst of ways; he _knows._ The persecutor during his trial had made that very much clear.

“Nothing?” Felicity Hou had asked. She was a Ravenclaw, two years his senior – died a year later, while hunting what remained of Voldemort’s supporters – horn-rimmed glasses and a sharp, severe face. “You and Potter had quite the reputation back in Hogwarts, you know.” She pushed her glasses up the slope of her nose.

“Nothing,” Draco drawled. His coffee is gritty and disgusting, made in the way only DMLE interns seem to be able to achieve. “It’s like Weasley said – should be good for him, no?”

Felicity leveled him with a look, the kind that pins you like a butterfly beneath a magnifying glass. “Hm,” is all she said. “Good on you, Malfoy.”

Draco knocked back his oil slick coffee. It’s disgusting, but does its job. “I suppose,” is all he offers.

And that brings him back to present-day – Felicity Hou’s little brother, Kyle Hou, in trainee-russet robes. Draco’s mouth is dry. Kyle hadn’t come up when Felicity had been partnered with him; all he’d ever known – all Felicity had ever told him – was that he was four years Felicity’s junior, and a Hufflepuff.

The file would say more, but the Auror division of the DMLE has always been rubbish with organization, doubly so after the beginning of Robard’s term as head. It’s like trying to find a pin in a haystack, without being able to use _accio_ to do so.

Weasley’s Patronus bounds it, small and shaggy as always. _“Got held up in a meeting with Robards. Start without me,”_ it says in Weasley’s half-cockney. The terrier whuffs around the amphitheater for a few seconds more, before vanishing in a clean, cool whisper of Weasley’s magic.

The trainees stop talking amongst each other, and clearing his throat, Draco swears that he can feel Kyle Hou’s laser-focused gaze on his throat – neither Hou was ever very tall, in all honesty.

“That was your other proctor,” he begins. “And, I’m certain that all of you know who he is. That is of little matter in your training period; you are here because you are the best of the best…”

And if Draco finds himself emulating Professor Snape more than he’d like to admit – well, it isn’t like any of these trainees will really be able to tell.

* * *

Harry both lives for and utterly detests the beginning of trainee season for the Auror department. It’s one of the busiest days of the year for Saint Mungo’s – aside from, of course, Samhain, Beltane and Litha – if only for the simple fact that the Auror trainees don’t seem to understand the simple concept of _using magic to attempt to prevent injuries._

At the front desk, Mediwitch Hartley leans over the marble tabletop, gesturing over with a gloved hand. “Healer Potter, over here,” she hisses. Her eyes look a little wild, and for once, her perfectly plaited hair is in disarray.

Harry raises an eyebrow at her, and Banishes his clipboard back to his office. “Mediwitch Hartley?” He asks. “You seem…frazzled.”

Mediwitch Hartley lowers him a judgmental look, and _of course,_ it’s directed towards his hair, and smoothly pats down the loose strands in her braid. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Director Robards,” she says in lieu of an explanation. “There’s going to be a _massive_ influx in a mo’.” Hartley offers him sheet of parchment with nearly thousands of names, written in handwriting that alternates between Ron’s familiar chicken scratch and another Auror’s efficient penmanship.

“There are _this_ many Auror trainees this year?” He gapes incredulously at the list – _thousands of Auror trainees._ Fucking hell.

Hartley shakes her head, ducking back beneath the front desk to fumble for a file. “No, not at all,” she mutters. “Only twelve of the names on that list are Auror trainees – their attending Proctors had been told to take them into Diagon Alley for a joint practice in Concealment and Stealth. There was a targeted attack while they were there and – Merlin, it wasn’t pretty, if what Robards said is true.” Hartley pushes the file over the marble of the counter and perches on her chair, wand moving to reorganize the explosion of papers on her desk. “This is the file Robards sent over – it’s on the trainees.” She tucks a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear. “Some of them have…left over health concerns from the War.”

Harry tucks the file beneath his arm, and nods, biting his lower lip. “I’ll go notify the attending Mediwizards, then,” he murmurs. “Should I go grab Mediwizard Shiva to help with the front desk?”

Harley scratches at the bridge of her nose, already knee deep in papers. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she says distractedly. “Solomon was supposed to be off lunch ten minutes ago anyways.”

Harry nods, and lets the click of his boots against Saint Mungo’s floors fill him with a quiet sense of confidence and anticipation. _Diagon Alley and Auror trainees,_ he thinks. Somewhere, somehow, there is a joke about that; but not one that Harry knows of.

True to Mediwitch Hartley’s word, the minute the large clock hanging over Saint Mungo’s chimes two o’clock, the hospital comes alive with the hustle and bustle of activity. The white and chrome entrance is peppered with glaringly lime green robes of Healers and Mediwizards and the crimson red of Aurors. The emergency ward and the fourth floor are flooded with patients, and the pager seems to be going off nearly nonstop.

_“Healer Potter to the Asclepius Loxias Ward, I repeat, Healer Potter to the Asclepius Loxias Ward. Thank you.”_

Harry sets down the collection of information taken on Mathilda Branwen’s extensive injuries, and weaves through the crowd, upstairs to the Asclepius Loxias Ward.

The lift lets him off just in front of Healer Pye – though last Harry had really spoken to him, he had been a Healer-in-Training beneath Healer Smethwyck, attending to Mr. Weasley – and Augustus smiles at him, brotherly and all-too tired.

“Quite the rush, eh?” Augustus says in greeting. “How’re things looking down in the emergency ward?”

“Not good,” Harry sighs. “It’s a bloodbath. We don’t have enough healers on hand, and we’re definitely going to have to call several off from their off days.” He rubs a hand down his face. “And you?”

“Right madhouse today is,” the other Healer laments. “Had a woman and three others wailing all at once – y’think that they dinnit know that I was tryin’ me best to get to ‘em.” The chav in Augustus slips through, with world-weary exhaustion greasing the way, and he runs a hand through his hair, a half-whistle coming through his teeth.

“Well, I’m here to take over in the Asclepius Ward for now,” Harry offers. “Go and grab something from the caf. The soup’s veg today.”

Augustus nods. “Righ’ on, bruv. See ya on the other side.” And he’s gone, in a whirl of lime green robes and strawberry blond hair.

From the Asclepius Loxias Ward, someone lets out a half-yelled cuss. Harry stares longingly out towards the lift, takes a breath for courage, and surges into the ward.

Attending Mediwitch Isadora Yaxley greets him with a tired half-smile, wrangling an Auror down into the cot all the while. “’Lo, Healer Potter,” she greets. “Auror Gadot, if you would please _lie down,_ I assure you that the wound you are currently sporting will stop hurting all the _sooner.”_

Wisely, Harry leaves the elder witch to it. Mediwitch Yaxley is a force to be reckoned with – a hundred and four years old, and still spry enough to hold an Auror in their prime down with one elegant hand. To say that she’s the boogieman (and simultaneous grandmother figure) of most of Saint Mungo’s would be putting it lightly.

“Take that young man in cot A-7, if you please, Healer Potter,” Mediwitch Yaxley calls from across the ward. “And work your way through the odds from thereon.”

Harry bends down to look at the clipboard sluggishly hovering nearby cot A-7. “Auror Saenz? It’s a pleasure to meet you…” The formalities drag on, more names than Harry knows he could ever hope to remember, and injuries with solutions as simple as a flick of the wand and a brackium emendo (not lockhart’s idiotic version.), or complex enough to warrant a stasis spell and a notice for a possible ward change.

It’s not quite mindless, but it’s what Harry loves – the bustle and movement of it, the scent of magic in the air, crackling like ozone and something slightly sweeter. He Summons a lolly from the offices for a child and her little brother, sets dislocated shoulders, and removes shrapnel and detritus as he makes his rounds.

It’s busy, and it’s tragic in more ways than Harry can count – but this is what he does. He flicks his wand to pull up Tyrone Greenhorn’s vitals, and begins to prescribe yet another dose of pain-relieving potions. Those poor Apothecary apprentices. They’re going to have a cow over this.

* * *

To say that Draco dislikes Saint Mungo’s – even on a good day – would be accurate, and really, one needn’t go much more in depth than that. And it’s not senselessly – but the walls are too white, the staff either too gruff or too cheerful – and there’s the undeniable fact that whenever Draco is here, it’s hardly ever because he is injured.

(last he was here, mother was being examined by the attending Healer in the fourth floor – the Freyja Bonaham Ward for Long-Lasting Curse Damage – “i’m terribly sorry,” she’d said, running her wand up and down mother’s sleeping form. “right now, there’s nothing we can do for her. the damage ward hasn’t seen a curse like this in…oh, merlin knows how many years. i’ll be sending her case over to research and development, but for now there are a few things i can prescribe her…”)

He sits heavily in the hospital-grade plastic chairs; to his left, on the cot, Kyle Hou lies eagle spread and cold. Draco purses his lips, and looks over on the prone form of his late-partner’s younger brother. There is no overwhelming fondness for the man himself – Draco has not known the younger Hou for nearly long enough – but what _does_ linger is the guilt.

Draco doesn’t think he can face Felicity’s parents again, and tell them that he’s lost their other child as well.

“Hello – oh.” The click of boots against the marble floor stops, and for a moment the world seems to constrict around Draco – there, in lime green robes, with the same _disgustingly_ disarrayed hair as always is Potter, clipboard in hand, wand speared through the mess of hair tied up behind his head.

“Potter,” Draco acknowledges stiffly.

Potter’s eyes flick over to Kyle, then back at Malfoy. He steps forwards, once, twice – then plucks the floating clipboard from the air with a decidedly professional air. “Can I presume that you’re making the decisions in lieu of Mister…” Potter squints at the scrawl on the parchment. “…Hou, as the standing Auror proctor?”

Professionalism. Draco lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and settles back into a more relaxed stance within the uncomfortable chair. “Yes. Both Auror Weasley and I have jurisdiction over the twelve trainees admitted into Saint Mungo’s for treatment today.”

Potter hums, and runs his wand above the length of Kyle’s body. “I see. Please remind Director Robards to send all paperwork regarding that _today,_ and not a fortnight from now.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, and coughs into his hand in a feeble attempt to hide the sudden bark of laughter. “Of course.”

Potter nods – attention hardly on Draco anymore, and begins to weave a net of green and golden-bright spells above Kyle’s prone form. It’s a combination Draco had admittedly expected out of Potter’s magic, but he’s never seen it quite this vibrant, ( _alive,_ a voice whispers. _you’re looking for the word_ alive.) especially not whilst in school. It’s a beautiful thing, all past baggage between them aside, sparking and unwavering over Potter’s patient in delicate fibers.

“Well, there’s good news, and there’s bad news.” Potter duplicates the parchment and clipboard with a flick of his wand, Banishing one of the two to wherever the documents go. “Which one do you want first?”

Draco blinks at him. “Whichever,” he says.

“I’ll begin with the good news, then, shall I?” Potter barrels on without waiting for a response. “The good news is that I’ve been able to identify what spells and curses still linger over Mister Hou, as well as what curses were used on him.” From the web, Potter pulls forth twelve threads, glittering golden and emerald green. “If you’ll look over here, these are the twelve curses still lingering. Now, we know _what_ they are and what they do – they’re simple, in all honesty…” And Potter runs through the curses, each nasty on their own – but together, he tells Draco that their effects are unknown.

“So, the bad news is that as of right now, I’m not certain how to dispel what remains.” Potter purses his lips and flips through the sheaf of parchment written on Kyle’s case. “I’ve sent what notes and data I’ve gathered on Mister Hou’s case to Research and Development – so we’ll be working in tandem with them in order to dispel the spells.”

Draco pulls one leg over one another, clasping his hands around the knee. “Walk me through _why,_ exactly, you aren’t able to dispel the spells currently, Healer Potter.”

Potter nods, and blows the web up, large, glittering threads of magic given tangible form. “The issue doesn’t quite lie within the spells themselves, but _how_ their effects affect one another.” Potter plucks out three different threads. “Say that I was to dispel these three curses. Magically, I’m more than capable to do so, but if I did then these _other_ three curses would wake up, and kill Kyle.” Three other strands glow a hot ruby red, pulsing under the bright hospital lights.

Draco nods. “I see.” Pushing himself from the chair, Draco drapes his Auror robes over his arm, and reaches out for Potter with the other.

For a moment, between them, there is tension enough to strangle them. The web of Potter’s magic spins and pulses behind them, above Kyle’s state of stasis. For a moment, they are in the hours before first-year once more, and Draco’s hand is between them, and maybe they are eleven again.

This time, Potter takes his hand firmly in his own, and shakes it. Quickly, up and down in brisk succession. “I’ll send a Patronus your way if there are any changes in Mister Hou’s case, Auror Malfoy.”

Draco nods. “Of course. Should I arrange for a further meeting as well?”

Potter looks at him, through those same glasses he’s had since first-year (perhaps longer), thoughtful and pensive. “No, no,” he mutters, half to himself, half to Draco. “Mediwizards Hartley and Shiva are overloaded due to the Diagon Alley incident. Listen, I don’t know how soon I’d be able to meet with you during my hours on duty – we’re overloaded, if you couldn’t tell – but I what I can do is meet with you afterhours.”

“If you have the time, I would appreciate it.” Draco very nearly wants to wince at how stilted his tone is – and how, if Mother were here, she would scold him terribly for it – but he glances over at Kyle Hou’s prone body, thinks of Felicity, and steels himself nonetheless.

Potter nods. “I’ll shoot you a Patronus before the end of the week then. Excuse me, Auror Malfoy.”

Potter ducks around him, and in the scant moments between blinks, is gone, bobbing and weaving amidst the influx of patients, Mediwizards and Healers scattered in the Asclepius Loxias Ward. His web vanishes with him, and Draco watches it until the last, star-bright pinprick of Potter’s magic disappears into the air.

Draco places a hand on the edge of Kyle’s bed. Sorry, he doesn’t say – though whether it’s towards Felicity, Kyle, or them both, he doesn’t quite know.

**Author's Note:**

> and that's a wrap! (i'm hungry) i hope you guys liked this; i know i'm having a blast writing this. 
> 
> comments && kudos are very very much appreciated. i'd like to hear what you guys think is good/what you think is bad & what you kind of...think will happen in the story? (oo is that a _plot???_ how scandalous) 
> 
> come chat with me on my [**tumblr**](shangyang.tumblr.com) too!


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